


If You're Lucky

by osmalic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunkers, Community: spn_j2_xmas, Curtain Fic, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osmalic/pseuds/osmalic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being friends-with-benefits with your brother is one thing. Falling in love with your brother? That's a whole Jerry Springer episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You're Lucky

The loud stomping and banging that wakes Sam doesn't surprise him—he's been expecting it since last night—but it still makes him grumpy.

"SAM!" Stomping on the floor turns into clomps on Sam's bedroom. "Rise and shine!"

Sam sighs, "Jesus," into the pillow and muffles his groan. He yells, "I'm coming, wait!" when Dean kicks his door again. He pushes aside the books scattered all over his mattress, gives up finding a clean shirt before he stumbles over to the door to throw it open. "What?!"

"It's six!" Dean is scowling as he holds up his arms: the right wrapped in a cast from wrist to his fingers while his entire left arm is covered with bandages. "I can't put on a new shirt. I have no socks. I can't make breakfast."

Sam substitutes rolling his eyes for a huge yawn. "Can't it wait til later?"

"I can't even take a leak!"

"Fuck." Now, Sam is awake and pissed—no pun intended. "You want me to hold your dick _and_ make breakfast for you?"

"Not like you haven't before," Dean leers.

And Sam should've expected this. Dean hardly talks about their mutual handjobs and blowjobs except when he's stressed or horny, which often interchanges within days. It's a secret articulated only through moments of double entendre.

Sam has spent the last two days wavering between guilt and exasperation over his injured brother. It's clear that Dean is trying to take advantage for the third day.

So he closes the door on Dean's face.

Dean's response is to elbow the door loudly. Sam makes him wait another thirty seconds—entirely on principle—before he pulls it open again. "Goddammit, Dean, you're not five years old!"

"I'm not _that_ helpless," Dean tells him petulantly, but adds in an embarrassed tone, "And dude, I can go to the bathroom alone but I'm...I'm really hungry. And I still have an entire day to go through."

"You're lucky if you make it through a week," Sam sighs, resists rolling his eyes. Still, he can't help indulging his brother especially when that warm feeling spreads in his chest. It's a rare day when Dean asks for his help, but that feeling has crept more often the past few months than the last decade combined. He looks back to his room, seeing the mess of papers and books, his eyes catching at the corner where a pile of laundry is growing. He sighs again.

"Don't complain when I burn the eggs," Sam warns when he turns back to Dean.

His brother only snorts. Sam already knows what it means. Dean doesn't really trust him in the kitchen—surprisingly Dean's domain in the bunker—but he's not in a position to complain with his two arms out of commission. Sam makes his way to the kitchen, trusting Dean to trail after him, but he doesn't take a few steps without taking a cursory glance into Dean's room.

The bed is half-made, as usual, with the blanket draped on the bed and mostly strewn on the floor, twisted with bandages, cotton, and other first-aid utilities. Pants, boxers, and shirts are pulled out of the drawers, and there's a pair of mismatched socks on the dresser.

Dean shoots Sam a rueful grin. "Had a tough time this morning," he mutters, curling his toes.

The sleepiness that clouds Sam's brain clears momentarily. Yet it's enough for him to realize that, besides the bandages and cast, his brother is only clad in an unbuttoned plaid shirt, boxers, and a scowl. Sam takes the sight in—it's not usual for his brother to look so defenseless even in the privacy of their home.

"You didn't even put on socks," Sam tells him.

"I was really hungry!"

And, Sam is beginning to remember, Dean would need two functioning hands to do it without pain. He smiles, coaxing Dean back into his room. "Socks first, then breakfast," he admonishes. He rummages through Dean's dresser for a pair of socks.

He pauses, then grabs one of Dean's larger shirt. It barely fits him, but it at least dispels the morning chill.

"I can eat naked if I wanted to," Dean complains.

"God forbid our guests walk in our kitchen with you cooking," Sam says, and makes Dean sit on the bed before he can say another word. Dean grumbles all the way, but he keeps quiet when Sam kneels before him, a sock poised over his toes.

Sam runs a hand over Dean's left knee, cataloging the numerous scars and the scabbing slice from last week's hunt—down, fingers tracing the back of Dean's knee, down to his hairy leg, resting briefly on Dean's ankle before caressing his brother's calf. Sam feels like he's back in bed, ready to drown in lethargy, but he's aware of every hitch of Dean's breath, the way he tenses his legs and straightens his back at Sam's touch.

They don't touch each other this way very often. The first time—well, Sam was eighteen and horny, whining that the stupid sex spell the witch cast on him is Dean's fault so Dean owes him one. But thereon, sex between them had always been purely physical. It's something that they never had time to fully explore despite the numerous chances, but Sam has recently begun to think that it's mostly because they never let themselves.

Dean clears his throat, pulling Sam from his thoughts. "Taking your time on your knees?" he murmurs, but Sam notices how breathless Dean's voice is.

Sam feels the corners of his mouth shape into a smile. He decides to test the waters. "Just admiring the view from here," he replies, patting Dean's now-socked feet.

Of course, Dean has to dispel the tension by kicking Sam's shoulder.

It doesn't make the smile on Sam's face disappear.

* * *

Sam burns the eggs.

He can't help it if the burner was turned on too high and that the toaster—which Dean takes pains to watch every morning because of its tendency to burn—was decent enough to churn out proper brown toast for once. Dean sits on the counter, browsing through the laptop for new cases while making snide commentaries on his cooking.

"You could help," Sam grumbles as he dumps the charred remains into the trash. "At least the coffee's okay."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, although Sam knows it's not as bitter as Dean is used to. He's trying to cut down his brothers caffeine. "And it's more amusing watching you try to make a decent meal." He makes exaggerated sounds as he chews the decent toast. "Mmm, but not bad for your first try, Sam. How did you even eat when you were with..." He stops.

But Sam continues, "...with Jess? Like this: she cooks, I eat."

"Some things stay the same," Dean sings, before he finally hops out of the seat. "Stand back and watch me do magic."

"You can't cook with two immobile hands," Sam complains, even as he lets Dean shoulder-check his way to the stove. The kitchen can easily fit ten people, but he loves how touchy Dean has been lately. He doesn't pull away. "How're you gonna cook?"

 _"You're_ doing it, duh, it's about time you learn," Dean says. "No excuses for you to know how to make decent scrambled eggs, Sammy, now that you have a kitchen. How can you make breakfast for your chicks?" Sam resists pointing out that he has no plans of having a long-term relationship with anyone else. Dean plants himself firmly in front of Sam before he can articulate this thought.

"Should I be worried?" Sam asks, leaning to glance over the charred pan over Dean's shoulder.

But Dean is staring back at him with a frown. "Is that my shirt?"

Sam shrugs, feels the material tighten over his shoulders. "Borrowed one of yours 'cause I didn't want to go back to my room." He catches the strange look on Dean's face, a cross between interest and apprehension. "Aw, c'mon, I'm doing the laundry today anyway. The next few weeks anyway, if you're lucky."

"You stretch it, you're dead," Dean says, looking away quickly. "Now take out another batch of eggs, and grab some bacon while you're at it."

"Maybe we should start with coffee," Sam suggests.

Dean leans his back onto Sam's chest, rubbing him gently. "Already got my fix. Start working, wench."

* * *

It's not easy trying to cook with Dean plastering himself to Sam's side. He scrutinizes everything, which Sam thinks is ridiculous—it's just breakfast, not some gourmet—but he doesn't tell Dean this. Instead, he breaks the eggs when Dean says he can, keeps tabs on the bacon sizzling with the eggs. He makes more coffee—this time with more caffeine.

Finally, Dean is satisfied enough to hops back to his seat while Sam puts a large plate before him. Sam smiles and moves to sit beside him.

"What?" Dean asks, confused.

"You can't eat with injured hands," Sam replies cheerfully, already taking a toast from the plate. "Open up."

"Fuck you," Dean starts to say—only for Sam to shove a toast into his mouth. He bites down involuntarily, chews and swallows before he spits out, "I managed to eat fine two days ago when my hands were still non-functioning!"

"We were in a hunt then, but we're taking some time off now." Sam doesn't think he's actually radiating smugness, but it doesn't matter since Dean opens his mouth to accept the piece of bacon Sam feeds him.

He, however, balks as soon as Sam tries to feed him a forkful of eggs. "I'm not an invalid!"

"Just indulge me," Sam protests, but no matter how much he tries, Dean keeps his mouth firmly shut. He sighs and hands the fork over.

Dean's triumphant grin makes Sam pause.

Although they've had their down times, Sam suddenly realizes that this mundane thing is something exceptional. It's not the first time it's entered his mind. The melancholic atmosphere of sitting on top of the Impala, drinking beer and gazing silently at the stars, the hours of silence inside a motel room, when one of them gets up after sex and just breathes—and now, here in this kitchen, Sam trying to feed Dean while Dean tries to resist. Sam should have seen this coming.

People have told them all along, that their co-dependency goes beyond the extremes, Dean easily stepped into Sam's Heaven to share his life, hunters have side-eyed them over the years even before their father died. So yeah, Sam should have seen this coming.

Being friends-with-benefits with your brother is one thing. Falling in love with your brother? That's a whole Jerry Springer episode.

Without commercials. 

"You okay, Sam?" Dean's voice penetrates through his thoughts.

Sam shakes himself, only to find Dean sitting beside him with a worried expression, his bandaged left arm reaching out to touch Sam's shoulder. Only Sam reaches out to grab his wrist, loosening his hold at Dean's wince. "Sorry," he mutters, then clears his throat. "What did you say?"

"I said, the recent disappearances in Arizona coincide with the ones we've been eyeing a few years back—"

"Let someone else take it," Sam interrupts.

Dean pauses, carefully says, "Sam—"

It makes sense in a way. The way Sam treated hunting and their father as a rival for his brother's attention, Sam's need to define himself away from his family, the greater need to return to it, and Jessica's death that was only the beginning. So here they are, and Sam knows it now. He can't wait to see how Dean would respond when he begins to realize that they can have this and it's forever.

Sam pulls Dean's bandaged hand, presses kisses on the exposed fingertips. He knows that the knives that sliced through his brother's left arm are still healing, so he takes care to hold it gently. "I'm not saying we should ignore it," Sam says, mouth moving over Dean's scabbing palm. "All I'm saying is you're not one-hundred percent right now and I'm..."

"You're...?" Dean prompts.

Sam meets his brother's eyes. He's serious when he declares quietly, "I don't want to do it without you anymore."

It's a serious declaration, borne not out of distress like most of their serious conversations.

So typically, Dean doesn't react with a confession of his own.

Instead, he rolls his eyes and kicks Sam's chair. "I know that, bitch. Next time, can you tell me without regressing to a fifteen-year-old girl?"

* * *

Sam makes several phone calls before he finally finds two hunters they can trust and still like them. He promises to send them their research, including the ones they've tracked a few years ago. He finishes the call to find Dean sitting on one of the library tables, scowling at the laptop. They haven't bought any of the touchscreens yet and he's still using his left hand to type and manipulate the mouse.

"How's your right arm?" Sam asks, walking over to his brother.

Dean shrugs awkwardly. "Still broken, I guess. Itchy."

Sam peers over his shoulder. The files Dean is sending to the hunters are still attaching. Considering it's a few years' worth of research, it will take a while. "Come and rest for a moment," he urges Dean. It strikes him how Dean is the one who usually coaxes him out of sleepless nights of research.

Dean frowns. "We have to send this now."

"You're getting irritable over a hunt that isn't ours," Sam reminds him. His hands find their way to his brother's tense shoulders, reminding him that Dean's hands have been out of commission for at least three days. A naughty idea leaps to his head. He leans down. "When was the last time you jerked off?" Sam murmurs to Dean's ear.

Dean nearly leaps out of his chair, only Sam pulls him back down. Dean glares up at him. "That's not—"

"I think that's the issue," Sam decides.

"My hands—"

"I can do it for you."

Dean gestures to the laptop. "But this—"

"—can wait. Do you want a blowjob or not?"

"Dammit, let me fin—"

"No," Sam interrupts cheerfully. He finally tires of waiting for Dean to respond, so he hauls him up and presses a kiss on his brother's lips. Dean's mouth automatically opens, gasping as Sam deepens the kiss. He leans closer, mindful of his brother's broken arm. Dean's left arm loosely winds around Sam's neck, pulling him down.

And because Sam is still a nerd, he pulls back to check if the attachment is still on-going.

"I thought I'm getting a blowjob here!" Dean rages.

Sam smiles. There's still around an hour to go, and then they have an entire day all to themselves. Maybe a week if they're lucky. "You are. Get on the table."

"In the library, Sam? Kinky!" Dean smirks.

Sam slaps his ass. "You don't know the half of it," he agrees. He decides he'll tell Dean about his library fantasies later. He suspects Dean won't be surprised. "And don't touch anything."

"Not even my dick?"

Sam drops a kiss on his lips. "Not even that. But especially not the books."

Dean scrambles to the other side of the table, far from the laptop and stack of books. Sam follows him, pulling off first his shirt, then his sweats. Dean hauls himself over the table, legs dangling as he watches Sam appreciatively. He doesn't resist when Sam steps between his legs, instead surges up to kiss Sam again. Sam pushes him back to rest on the table before making his way down Dean's neck, to his chest, peppering his brother's skin with tiny kisses.

Dean's breathing gets more erratic, especially now Sam begins to slowly unbutton his shirt. "Y-you don't have to," he starts.

"I want to," Sam whispers back, kissing Dean.

This is different as well. Their previous sex has always—without fail— _always_ been frantic. This is languid, dreamy, no adrenaline rush or fuck-or-die curses involved. Sam lavishes Dean's nipple with his tongue, loving how his brother tries to bite off a groan when Sam pinches the other. They harden at the attention, and it's clear Dean loves it when his good arm snakes its way back to find a hold on Sam's head.

But Sam has other ideas. He pulls back, gently removing Dean's arm and placing them right next to his head. "Keep this here," Sam says tenderly, then kisses Dean's right arm through the cast. "And keep this comfortable. Tell me if it hurts."

"Just get on with it," Dean grits out.

And Sam has to comply. His dick is heavy between his legs but his focus is on his brother's body: worshiping in a way he never had the chance to before. He traces his lips over Dean's ribs, cataloging the scars, past the flat of his stomach that quivers under his tongue especially as Sam laps at his bellybutton. They've been intimate for almost half their lives, but Sam knows this is the first time he's going to completely take everything, the first time he's giving everything back.

Dean moans, "Sam, _fuck,"_ when Sam's deft fingers slowly pulls down Dean's boxers, left to hang on his knee, down to Dean's socked feet. Sam pulls back again—this time to admire the view of his debauched brother on the table, legs spread wide, shirt pulled open and his boxers on one foot.

"Fuck, Dean," Sam echoes. His mouth waters at the sight of Dean's cock, and he spares himself a second to wonder how this has changed as well, before running his hands over the insides of Dean's thigh and licking a stripe at the underside of Dean's cock.

His brother practically arches off the table, except Sam pushes him back. "Mind your arm."

"Mind my _dick,"_ Dean snarls, practically sobbing as he squirms on the table. "Please, just—Sam, I want—"

Sam shushes him, plays with his sac before he starts sucking his brother's dick. His legs strain at the awkward height, so he pushes Dean's body further into the table to give Sam some room to suck his dick. The ordinary action makes it thrilling for him, and Sam starts sucking in earnest, trying to take Dean deeper. He alternately bobs up and down Dean's dick and pulls back to suck Dean's balls.

Dean startles when Sam moves his hand from Dean's thighs to part cup his ass, practically lifting him off the table. It pushes Dean deeper into Sam's throat, which distracts his older brother enough from the dry finger prodding against his ass. Sam watches the arch of Dean's throat, thinks, _I did that,_ making him moan at the thought—of Dean wanton with lust at Sam's every touch.

"S-sam," Dean pants, his left arm pressed against the table. "Sam, I c-can't..."

Sam pulls away slowly, easing Dean gently back into the table. Dean's cock juts angrily between his legs and the sight of his brother's shamelessly spread on the table makes his own cock throb. "Just a few more," Sam says hoarsely, and he squeezes the base of his cock to keep from coming.

 _"Please,_ Sam," Dean begs, then shouts when Sam bends down again to take his cock back into his throat. Dean thrusts up and down, panting, calling Sam's name until Sam pulls back for the last time, mouth sucking Dean's cock firmly until his brother is coming into his mouth.

Sam swallows, but he ends up missing most of it so it spatters on Dean's stomach and thighs. Dean doesn't seem to mind, though, as he collapses back on the table with a dazed expression.

Sam thinks of going out to grab a washcloth, but instead he leans forward to kiss Dean's chest, up his neck and finally his mouth. Dean kisses back, but he squirms away with a frown.

"You didn't..." Dean trails off, meeting Sam's gaze.

Sam shrugs. "It's for you," he says, a bit awkwardly.

Dean gives him an incredulous look. "You didn't think that getting you off is also my goal, Sammy?" he demands. And before Sam can explain, Dean lifts and hooks his legs on Sam's shoulder.

Sam's eyebrows raise. He can see the redness spreading from his brother's face down to his neck and chest, but he can't resist holding on to one of Dean's knees. "Dean...?"

"Not..." Dean starts, stops, before trying again quietly, "Not now, maybe? Just...you can...just outside because I can't...my hands..."

A rush of helpless wonder fills Sam and goddammit, he's not supposed to feel this way ever—but it's Dean, his brother, and they've always broken all the rules without question. What's one more? "Yeah, yeah, of course, Dean," he says gratefully. "If you're sure..."

"Dammit, Sammy, if you don't want—ahh—" Dean ends with moan as Sam slides his cock into his brother's crack. The angle is awkward, and Sam goes slowly to make sure he won't accidentally push his brother hard and break another arm, but it's perfect. Most of all, Sam's hands can trace Dean's legs, his knees, and the fuzzy texture of his brother's socks, which takes him over the edge. Sam leans forward to kiss his brother as he thrusts into the wet heat.

Sam cries Dean's name when he comes. Dean answers with a kiss, swallows his name, claims it as his once more. There are harsh panting, stuttered words, all nonsensical and means everything.

* * *

They lie side by side on the large table, hands entwined. Sam is fully naked while Dean only has his socks on.

"You know we have to eventually use this table for research, right?" Sam wonders.

"You're the one who clearly thought this through," Dean argues. He makes his voice high in an effort to sound like Sam, _"You need to rest, Dean! On the table, Dean! Fuck my mouth, Dean,_ blah blah blah!"

"I don't sound like that!" Sam cries indignantly.

"Sounded that way to me," Dean retorts.

"Jerk." Sam nudges him—gently, still wary of his brother's injuries. He pulls Dean's hand to his lips, kisses Dean's knuckles. "You know we have to talk about it, right?"

"No," Dean refuses cheerfully. "We don't have to talk about it at all."

Sam doesn't think so, but he knows they're going to have to, eventually. It's inevitable, and Winchesters can't keep secrets buried for too long.

But Sam knows it's been a long time coming, and he knows Dean knows it too. Sex between them was just another bridge to cross among other hurdles they encountered across along the way—and things turned out fantastically. Co-dependency, soulmates, whatever they call it, Sam knows this secret is worth waiting for.

So he rolls over and gently nips Dean's shoulder, letting one of his hands rest on Dean's stomach. "Yeah, not now," he agrees.

They have an entire day all to themselves. Maybe a week if they're lucky.


End file.
